


The Long Road

by uminoko



Series: Memory's Voice [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: F/M, Gen, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1335271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uminoko/pseuds/uminoko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When The Sunset Eats The Sky" tried to fill in what happened immediately following the Widow Hunt arc, mostly from Natasha's perspective.  This is the continuation of that attempt, but now with more PoVs thrown in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If You'll Walk Away, I'll Walk Away

Natasha turned the key in the well-scratched door, noting that the lock didn’t stick, and walked into what she now referred to as the Brooklyn Apartment:  No Man’s Land, at least most of the time.

"Hello," she said to the man on the couch.

Bucky looked up from stuffing what appeared to be baked beans straight from a can into his face.  ”Hello, um.”

"Natasha," she supplied.  "I’m the one with memory problems.

He swallowed.  ”Sorry.”

"Do you want to…heat those up or anything?"  She gathered her trench coat around her and sat in the armchair.  "Is it even good?"

“‘Salright.”

Silence stretched between them.  She noted the beaten-up leather jacket on the back of the couch behind him, the jeans, the nondescript t-shirt, the haircut that was much shorter than she last saw him.  One could hardly tell the texture of his hair was curly, and when he turned his head, she could see the outlines of scars on his skull, faint enough, but not to someone who knew what to look for.

"You don’t have to have the hologram up, you know.  It doesn’t make a difference to me.  Why are you here?"

"That’s the question, isn’t it," Natasha gave him a little laugh.  "I wanted to pick something up."

"There’s nothing here."

"You’re here."

Bucky raised his eyebrows and set the can on the table, clinking steel against glass.  ”You’re here to pick me up?”

"Well, I needed to pick your brain about something, and I was hoping you’d be here."

She stretched her legs, conscious that he was watching her.  The difference between the man she saw in the hospital room and his current state was irritating; he was now a book clamped shut.

"About what?"  he asked evenly.

"The Paris hideout."

And the book opened up again, on a familiar chapter it seems.  With an unmistakably guilty look, he picked the can back up again, probably just to have something in his hands.

"Oh, so you know where I’m going with this," she drew her hands apart, smiling.

"There was no other way.  It was the best course of action at the time…"

"It smelled like cheap booze and regret. What did you do, bring a sad hobo there?"

He brought a hand to his eyes.  ”Worse, actually.”

"Not that I’m judging—" she clarified.

That got a laugh out of him after all.  ”No, I’m sorry.  I meant to get a word out to you, but…”

"I’m going to have to leave that place, you understand."

Bucky nodded, avoiding his eyes.  He had to understand, of course, a hideout is no longer a hideout when its location is known.  Why bring a stranger to a place you’d rather not lose?

She understood, too, from the decor, that it wasn’t just her place, but it contained all those mementos of couplehood, small and large, finding which she once resented, but now expected.

"It was a while ago, actually," he said.  "I’ve been busy with Steve, and running Fury’s errands on the side."

"When life gives you lemons, do missions for SHIELD, right?"

"One hell of a fucking lemon.  At least it’s doing something useful."  He got up, picked up his jacket.

”Wait,” she said.  ”Can I see it?  Before you go?”

He paused.  ”What is your obsession with my arm, anyway?  I’m not some kind of a freak to be paraded around.”

"Barnes, I’m a goddamn Avenger, I’ve seen things so freaky, it makes you look like Steve Rogers."

He lowered his forehead, like he was about to headbutt a wall, but the left arm shimmered and gleam of metal replaced flesh.

"There you go.  Everything you hoped for?"

Natasha flowed to her feet, closing the distance between them.

"Hm." She tilted her head.  The seams were more intricate than she’d expected; Russians could occasionally display craftsmanship, for example, when it came to churches, state houses, and weapons, and this one was beautiful.

"You, uh," he cleared his throat.  "How did you figure out that I had it?  I tried to keep it out of the official Avenger vids.  SHIELD file?"

"Oh no," she stepped back. "Private materials."

Natasha kept her voice casual, but after a beat, the metal arm came up to cover Bucky’s face - to little effect, because she could see his ears flaming scarlet.

"Don’t worry, I deleted everything.  It didn’t seem right, having it anymore, or even looking at it."

Bucky made a miserable noise.

As obviously as possible, Natasha began to study her fingernails.  They were clean.  Clean, pink, and short.  Well-filed, too.

"I didn’t look at it too much," she remarked.

He brought the other hand to his face.  Natasha wondered how much pressure he was capable of exerting, because it seemed vaguely dangerous.

"Well, now I’ve made things awkward.  I didn’t mean to,"  she turned on her heels.  "Anyway, I’ll head out.  Please tell me next time you bring a third party to my safe house."

"Yeah.  Yeah, I will—"

But she was already on the other side of the door.


	2. Wait Out The Weather

Sam told him that there are five stages of grief that people go through when faced with something bigger than themselves, and Bucky just tumbled through all of them.  

1.  Denial

_That did not just happen.  She didn’t just come through the door and give him crap for dumbass decisions that put everyone in jeopardy.  She didn’t just tell him— she—_

2.  Anger

_What the fuck did you expect, Barnes?  You knew she had the pictures and the occasional video, what, she’s never going to come across them?  She has to put her life back together, and you know why?  Because of you.  Because of what you did and who you trained and mistakes you made.  So if you get off with a little embarrassment, well, that’s a small price to pay, and you have no one to blame but yourself.  And you know what, you can’t get mad about being seen in that context, not by her, you can remember her perfectly well, the curve of her hip, and the softness of the skin below her ear and—_

3.  Bargaining

_Oh god, make her come back, I’ll do anything, I’ll be anything, I’ll kill anyone you want me to, I’ll beg forgiveness, I’ll burn out my mind, I’ll never, ever pick up a gun again, I’ll rip the arm off and live the rest of my life as a cripple, please, please, please, anything…_

4.  Depression

He didn’t remember how he ended up in the shower.  The water was running cold over his face, which was for the best, really, because if that mirror fogged up, he would think of other things that happened here, and the cold helped not to think about anything.

5.  Acceptance

"Great job, Bucky," he said out loud.  "There aren't any towels left."

He picked his shirt off the bathroom floor, wiped himself off meticulously, then wrung it out and put it on.  There was a cell phone in the pocket of his pants.  He took it out, looked at it, and stuffed it back in.  Then he took it out again.

Not far from the Brooklyn apartment, Sam Wilson’s phone rang.

"Hey," Bucky said.

"It’s three in the morning, man."

"Shit."

"You OK?"

"Yeah."

There were sounds of shuffling and getting out of bed on the other end.  ”You can come over, I’m making coffee.”

"Nah, it’s too late."

"No, I have to get up anyway.  Redwing’s been keeping me up all fricken night, I can’t sleep."

"Yeah, OK," Bucky said and hung up.  Sam is a terrible liar.   _What the hell are you gonna tell him?_   _Hey, I am having a crisis, because she stood next to me?_

The great thing about Sam is that people tell him shit like this all the time, and he doesn’t bat an eye.  The other great thing is that he talks to birds.  That’s pretty weird, but Bucky has seen weirder things.  


	3. Born Right In The Doorway

Screams.  Screams rose to the sky in an unbroken wall of sound, tearing and flapping in the wind like priest robes.  Screams beat against glass, strung up in the morning sunshine.  
  
Bucky woke up to birds.    
  
The birds coalesced into a silhouette of a man with a mug in hand.  Bucky groaned, rubbed his eyes, and rolled onto his back.  
  
"What the hell time is it?"  
  
"Crack of noon," Sam said.  "Want some coffee?"  
  
"Why does everyone always want to get me to drink coffee?"  Bucky muttered, sitting up.  His boots were still on.  
  
"Sorry about your couch, man," he said.  
  
"Don't mention it."  
  
Sam was a good guy, through and through, and out of all the crap that happened over the last few months, Sam finding out that Bucky was alive was probably the only break he got.  Sam never pushed, never lectured.  Really, Bucky suspected that he was some kind of a saint, except saints put up with people's shit more.  
  
"What was it, by the way?"  Sam asked, pointing the mug at him.  
  
It was the casual tone that made Bucky feel the most guilty. Forget the getting the dirt on the couch, or startling that damn bird, or even waking a guy up at hours that people should be sleeping, but when he doesn't even ask what's wrong until the morning after?  "Talked," he said, and ran out of words.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Sam sighed and disappeared into the kitchen.  
  
He closed his eyes and must have fallen asleep, because when he opened them again, Sam was sitting on the couch next to him with two plates, piled with scrambled eggs and hash browns, so dark they looked scorched.  
  
His eyes must have lit up, but Sam hugged one plate to himself and placed the other on the end table, out of Bucky's reach.  "First you gotta tell me why you keep coming back there," he said.  
  
Bucky jerked his head side to side, as though he was trying to get water out of his ear.  "Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?"  
  
Sam chuckled.  "I'm just checking if you know.  Can't have much of a life if you keep falling apart like that every time your past comes back to haunt you."  
  
 _My past doesn't come back to haunt me,_ Bucky thought, _I'm haunting it.  I'm stalking it in dark alleys and empty rooms, I'm coming back to long-cold battlefields.  I'm the ghost.  Wow, I should really eat something, I sound delirious._  
  
"I'm pretty sure I know that," Bucky said.  
  
"You may know it, I just don't think you learned it yet."  Sam spooned some scrambled eggs onto a piece of toast and bit into it, raising eyebrows pointedly at Bucky.  
  
"Whatever-" Bucky tried to reach over Sam to get to his breakfast, which he felt now was rightfully owned, "-the fuck that means."  
  
Sam slapped his arm away and handed him the other plate.  "Don't play dumb."  
  
Bucky frowned, grabbed the plate, and started stabbing the scrambled eggs with a fork.  The annoying thing about Sam Wilson was that he was just so damn reasonable.  Maybe it's best to talk to Steve.  No, talking to Steve is a horrible idea.  
  
They ate for a while in silence, except for the occasional chirping outside.  The chirping sounded happier than in any other spot in New York, which annoyed Bucky greatly.  He polished off his food and got up to get everyone's plates, but Sam waved him off.  
  
"Nah, I got it.  Sit down, you're a guest."  
  
He sat, weighed down by the burden of another's hospitality.  His uselessness in this situation, among others, scratched at him.  
  
Sam came back to the living room and looked down at Bucky, drying his hands on a crisp kitchen towel, illuminated by the sun.  
  
"Is that what you did for Sharon?  When, you know…"  Bucky trailed off.  
  
"I didn't do anything for Sharon that she didn't do for herself," Sam shrugged.  "I was just around."  
  
"I just- I don't know what to do," Bucky said, surprised that he was speaking out loud.  "Everything seems to be going to shit.  Steve's acting weird.  I don't even know where Sharon is.  Fury is the same old bastard, but I got this feeling that his missions are fucking up more than they fix.  And Natasha.  Just…damn."  
  
Sam sighed and sat down next to him.  "You're a good guy, my friend."  
  
Bucky was about to protest, but Sam put a hand on his shoulder.  It was heavy.  "No.  You didn't say one thing about yourself this whole time.  You keep talking about how everybody else is doing.  What's going on for you, man?"  
  
He thought about it.  "I've been having some weird dreams.  Birds and shit."  
  
"Uh-uh.  No kidding,"  Sam threw his hands up.  "Look, you keep running around in circles, trying to avoid the one thing that's good for you."  
  
"Oh yeah, what's good for me?"  
  
"Perspective.  Quit doing the same thing that you always do and go take care of your business."  
  
Bucky laughed, more bitter than relieved.  "Believe it or not, that's what I've been doing lately.  I'm smart like that."  
  
"Yeah, I heard you've been doing Fury's business."  
  
 _Damn_.  He didn't have much of a comeback for that.  
  
Sam shook his head.  "It's just that I think you're right."  
  
"What?"  
  
"About everything going to shit.  You might as well take care of whatever it is that keeps you up at night."  
  
"Well, everything is always going to shit around here anyway," Bucky grinned and gave Sam a generous pat on the back.  Maybe there was one trip he could take after all.


End file.
